The Project Gutenberg eBook ofTargumThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: TargumAuthor: George BorrowRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12510]Most recently updated: December 15, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARGUM ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: TargumAuthor: George BorrowRelease date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12510]Most recently updated: December 15, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed by David Price
Title: Targum
Author: George Borrow
Author: George Borrow
Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12510]Most recently updated: December 15, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARGUM ***
Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
“The raven has ascended to the nest of the nightingale.”Persian Poem
“The raven has ascended to the nest of the nightingale.”Persian Poem
The following pieces, selections from a huge and undigested mass of translation, accumulated during several years devoted to philological pursuits, are with much diffidence offered to the public, the writer being fully aware that not unfrequently he has failed in giving his version that cast and turn, which constitute no slight part of the beauty of the original; a point the accomplishment of which the poetical Translator ought, in all instances, to bear particularly in view, but which he will invariably find the most difficult part of the task which he has undertaken; in comparison with which the rendering of the diction of his Author into tolerable verse is an easy achievement. Perhaps no person, amongst the many individuals who have distinguished themselves by skill in the targumannic art, has more successfully surmounted this difficulty than Fairfax, the Translator into English “octave rhyme” of “The Jerusalem,” the master-piece of the greatest poet of modern Italy and, with one exception, of modern time.
That the character of a nation is best distinguishable by the general tone of its poetry, has been frequently remarked, and is a truth which does not admit of controversy; the soft songs of the Persian, and the bold and warlike ditties of the Dane are emblems of the effeminacy of the one, and the reckless heroism of the other.—In most instances the writer in the selection of pieces for this little work has been guided by a desire of exhibiting what is most characteristic of the people to whose literature it belongs. At the same time, he has been careful that this desire should not lead him to the countenancing of any thing which could be considered as pregnant with injury to good taste and morals, and has in consequence been compelled to exclude from his anthology many a glorious flower, which he would gladly have woven therein, had he not been apprehensive that it was the offspring of a poisonous bulb. He cannot refrain from lamenting that in his literary researches he has too often found amongst the writings of those, most illustrious for their genius and imagination, the least of that which is calculated to meet the approbation of the Christian, or even of the mere Moralist; and in conclusion he will take the liberty of addressing to those who may feel within them the stirrings of a mind capable of mighty things, the sublime words, slightly modified, of an Arabian sage and poet: O man, though the years of thy worldly fame are destined to be equal in number to the doves of the heaven, they shall nevertheless have an end, but whatever thou shalt do or say, which is founded on the love of wisdom and of God, shall endure for ever.
Saint Petersburg. June 1, 1835.
From the Hebrew.
Reign’d the Universe’s Master ere were earthly things begun;When His mandate all created, Ruler was the name He won,And alone He’ll rule tremendous when all things are past and gone;He no equal has nor consort, He the singular and loneHas no end and no beginning, His the sceptre, might, and throne;He’s my God and living Saviour, rock to which in need I run;He’s my banner and my refuge, fount of weal when call’d upon;In His hand I place my spirit at night-fall and rise of sun,And therewith my body also; God’s my God—I fear no one.
From the Arabic.
O Thou who dost know what the heart fain would hide;Who ever art ready whate’er may betide;In whom the distressed can hope in their woe;Whose ears with the groans of the wretched are plied—Still bid Thy good gifts from Thy treasury flow;All good is assembled where Thou dost abide;To Thee, save my poverty, nought can I show,And of Thee all my poverty’s wants are supplied;What choice have I save to Thy portal to go?If ’tis shut, to what other my steps can I guide?’Fore whom as a suppliant low shall I bow,If Thy bounty to me, Thy poor slave, is denied?But oh: though rebellious full often I growThy bounty and kindness are not the less wide.
From the Arabic.
Grim Death in his shroud swatheth mortals each hour,Yet little we reck of what’s hanging us o’er;O would on the world that ye laid not such stress,That its baubles ye lov’d not, so gaudy and poor;O where are the friends we were wont to caress,And where are the lov’d ones who dwelt on our floor?They have drank of the goblet of death’s bitterness,And have gone to the deep, to return never more;Their mansions bewail them in tears and distress;Yet has paradise lovelier mansions in store;Of the worth of the plume the dove strips from its dressWere their views, save in memory heaven they bore.
From the Arabic.
In the fount fell my tears, like rain,And straight defil’d became its flood;How should it undefil’d remain,All purpled o’er with human blood?
How wretched roams the weary wight,Who rage of keen pursuers fears;The whole earth’s surface in his sightA hunter’s treacherous net appears.
From the Persian.
Boy, hand my friends the cup, ’tis time of roses now;Midst roses let us break each penitential vow;With shout and antic bound we’ll in the garden stray;When nightingales are heard, we’ll rove where roses blow;Here in this open spot fill, fill, and quaff away;Midst roses here we stand a troop with hearts that glow;The rose our long-miss’d friend retains in full array;No fairer pearls than friends and cups the roses know;Poor Hafiz loves the rose, and down his soul would lay,With joy, to win the dust its guardian’s foot below.
If shedding lovers’ blood thou deem’st a matter slight,No goodness I can plead to scare thee and affright,O Thou, in whose black locks night’s Genius stands confest,Whose maiden cheek displays the morning’s Master bright.My eyes to fountains turn, down pouring on my breast,I sink amid their waves, to swim I have no might.O ruby lip, by thee life’s water is possest,Thou couldst awake the dead to vigour and delight;There’s no salvation from the tresses which investThose temples, nor from eyes swift-flashing left and right.Devotion, piety I plead not to arrestMy doom, no goodness crowns the passion-madden’d wight;Thy prayer unmeaning cease, with which thou weariest,O Hafiz, the most High at morning and at night.
O Thou, whose equal mind knows no vexation,Who holding love in deep abomination,On love’s divan to loiter wilt not deign,Thy wit doth merit every commendation.Love’s visions never will disturb his brain,Who drinketh of the vine the sweet oblation;And know, thou passion-smit, pale visag’d swain,There’s medicine to work thy restoration;Ever in memory the receipt retain—’Tis quaffing wine-cups to intoxication.
From the Turkish of Fezouli.
O Fezouli, the hour is near,Which bids thee from this world depart,And leave—what now thou hold’st so dear—The loves of thy too ardent heart.
Yet till that fated hour arrive,Be thy emprises, every one,If thou wouldst fain behold them thrive,In God’s Almighty name begun.
From the Turkish.(Translated from the metrical History of the World.)
Eight Gennets{8}there be, as some relate,Or one subdivided, as others state;The first Dar al Galal, the next is Salem,And Gennet Amawi stands next to them;Then Kholud and Nayim and Gennet Ferdous—And that last as most lovely is pictur’d to us;A seventh there is, Dar al Karar the same,And an eighth there is also, and Ad is its name.God made Dar al Galal of white pearls fair,Then of rubies Al Salem, so red in their glare;He made Gennet Kholud so splendid to standOf bright yellow corals, so smooth to the hand;Then blest Gennet Nayim of silver ore—Behold ye its strength, and its Maker adore.Gold bricks He employ’d when He built Ferdous,And of living sapphires Al Karar rose.He made the eighth Gennet of jewels all,With arbours replete ’tis a diamond hall.Broad and vast is paradise-peak—The lowest foundation is not weak.One over the other the stories are pil’d:The loftiest story Ad is styl’d.From above or below if you cast your eyes,You can see the Gennets in order rise.You ask, for whom are those mansions gay;For the prophets of God, for his lov’d, I say.
Seven walls are plac’d, which to open are meant,Far betwixt them is the extent;Betwixt two walls the whole doth stand,Walls uncrumbling, mighty and grand.Within are bowers, cedar-woods dusk,Houries and odours of amber and musk;Eight are the gates for the eight estates,Jewel-beset, gold-beaming gates;Upon the first inscrib’d you see:For those who repent this gate is free.On the second: for those who up-offer pray’r;On the third: for the sons of charity fair.On the fourth this solemn inscription stands:For those who fulfil the Lord’s commands.In painted letters the fifth doth say:For those who for pilgrimage gold up-lay.The sixth fair portal thus proclaims:For ye who inhibit from sin your frames;The seventh: for God’s own warrior train,Who bleed for his cause, nor flinch from pain.’Tis written in white the eighth above:For those who instruct for Allah’s love{10}.For ye who serve God with heart and eye,Control your passions when swelling high,Your parents cherish and all your race,For ye are the halls of joy and grace;For the prophets of God are they decreed,Who His law in the sacred volumes read.
From the Tartar.
O thou, from whom all love doth flow,Whom all the world doth reverence so,Thou constitut’st each care I know;O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
O keep me from each sinful way;Thou breathedst life within my clay,I’ll therefore serve Thee, night and day;O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
I ope my eyes and see Thy face,On Thee my musings all I place,I’ve left my parents, friends and race;O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
Take Thou my soul, my every thing,My blood from out its vessels wring,Thy slave am I, and Thou my King;O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
I speak—my tongue on Thee doth roam;I list—the winds Thy title boom;For in my soul has God His home;O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
The world the shallow worldling craves,And greatness need ambitious knaves,The lover of his maiden raves;O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
The student needs his bookish lore,The bigot shrines, to pray before,His pulpit needs the orator;O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
Though all the learning ’neath the skies,And th’ houries all of paradise,The Lord should place before my eyes,O Lord! I’d nothing crave but Thee.
When I through paradise shall stray,Its houries and delights survey,Full little gust awake will they,O Lord! I’ll nothing crave but Thee.
For Hadgee Ahmed is my name,My heart with love of God doth flame,Here and above I’ll bide the same;O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
Relating to the worship of the Great Foutsa or Buddh.From the Tibetian.
Should I Foutsa’s force and glory,Earth’s protector, all unfold,Through more years would last my storyThan has Ganges sands of gold.Him the fitting reverence showingFor a minute’s period e’en,Bringeth blessing overflowingUnto heaven and man, I ween.If from race of man descended,Or from that of dragon-sprite,When thy prior course{13}is ended,Thou in evil paths shouldst light,—If Great Foutsa ever, everThou but seek with mind sincere,Thou the mists of sin shalt sever,All shall lie before thee clear.Whosoe’er his parents losingFrom his early infancy,Cannot guess with all his musing,Where their place of birth might be;He who sister dear nor brother,Since the sun upon him shone,And of kindred all the otherShoots and branches ne’er has known—If of Foutsa Grand the figureHe shall shape and colour o’er,Gaze upon it rapt and eager,And with fitting rites adore,And through twenty days shall utterThe dread name with reverend fear,Foutsa huge of form shall flutterRound about him and appear,And to him the spot discover,Birth-place of his flesh and bone{14};And though evils whelm them over,For his sake release them soon;If that man unchang’d still keepingFrom back-sliding shall refrain,He, by Foutsa touch’d when sleeping,Shall Biwangarit’s title gain;If to Bouddi’s elevation,He would win, and from the threeConfines dark of tribulationSoar to light and liberty—When a heart with kindness glowingHe within him shall descry,To Grand Foutsa’s image going,Let him gaze attentively:Soon his every wish acquiringHe shall triumph glad and fain,And the shades of sin retiringNever more his soul restrain.Whosoever bent on speedingTo that distant shore, the homeOf the wise, shall take to readingThe all-wondrous Soudra tome;If that study deep beginning,No fit preparation made,Scanty shall he find his winning,Straight forgetting what he’s read:Whilst he in the dark subjectionShall of shadowing sin remain,Soudra’s page of full perfectionHow shall he in mind retain?Unto him the earth who blesses,Unto Foutsa, therefore heDrink and incense, food and dressesShould up-offer plenteously;And the fountain’s limpid liquorPour Grand Foutsa’s face before,Drain himself a cooling beakerWhen a day and night are o’er;Tune his heart to high devotion:The five evil things eschew,Lust and flesh and vinous potion,And the words which are not true;Living thing abstain from killingFor full twenty days and one,And meanwhile with accents thrillingMighty Foutsa call upon—Then of infinite dimensionFoutsa’s form in dreams he’ll see,And if he with fixt attention,When his sleep dissolv’d shall be,Shall but list to Soudra’s volume,He, through thousand ages flight,Shall of Soudra’s doctrine solemn;Ne’er forget one portion slightYes, a soul so richly giftedEvery child of man can find,If to mighty Foutsa liftedHe but keep his heart and mind.He who goods and cattle lackingIs to fell disease a prey,In whose household bones are cracking,Cuts occurring every day,Who though slumbering never restethFrom excess of bitter pain,And what he in prayer requestethNever, never can obtain,—To earth-favouring Foutsa’s figureIf but reverence he shall payDire misfortune’s dreadful rigourFlits for ever and for aye;In his sleep no ills distress him,And of nought he knows the want;Cattle, corn and riches bless him,Which the favouring demons grant.Those, who sombre forests threading,Those, who sailing ocean’s plain,Fain would wend their way undreadingEvil poisons, beasts and men,Evil spirits, demons, javals{17},And the force of evil winds,And each ill, which he who travelsIn his course so frequent finds—Let them only take their station’Fore the form of Foutsa Grand,On it gaze with adoration,Sacrifice with reverent hand—And within the forest gloomy,On the mountain or the vale,On the ocean wide and roomyThem no evil shall assail.Thou, who every secret knowest,Foutsa, hear my heart-felt pray’r;Thou, who earth such favour showest,How shall I thy praise declare?Through ten million calaps{18}hoaryIf with cataract’s voice I roar,Yet of Foutsa’s force and gloryI may not the sum out-pourWhosoe’er the title learningOf the earth’s protector high,Shall, whene’er his form discerning,On it gaze with steadfast eye,And at times shall offer dresses,Offer fitting drink and food.He ten thousand joys possesses,And escapes each trouble rude.Whoso into deed shall carryOf the law each precept, heThrough all time alive shall tarry,And from birth and death be free.Foutsa, thou, who best of anyKnow’st the truth of what I’ve told,Spread the tale through regions, manyAs the Ganges’ sands of gold.
From the Chinese.
From out the South the genial breezes sigh,They shake the bramble branches to and fro,Whose lovely green delights the gazer’s eye—A mother’s thoughts are troubled even so.
From out the South the genial breezes move,They shake the branches of the bramble-tree;Unless the sons fair men and honest prove,The virtuous mother will dishonor’d be.
The frigid fount with violence and sprayBy Shiyoun’s town upcasts its watery store;Though full seven sons she give to life and dayThe mother’s heart is but disturb’d the more.
When sings the redbreast it is bliss to hearThe dulcet notes the little songster breeds;But ah, more blissful to a mother’s earThe fair report of seven good children’s deeds.
Survey, survey Gi Shoi’s murmuring flood!How its bamboos with living green are gay;Survey the great, illustrious and good—How sculptur’d, polish’d and refin’d are they!What elegance and majesty they bear!What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes;View them but once, and whilst thou breath’st the airThou’lt ne’er forget the great, the good and wise.
Survey, survey Gi Shoi’s murmuring flood!How its bamboos uptower in green array;The bonnets of the great, the wise and goodAt either ear an agate gem display;Bright as a star the crownlet of their hair—What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes;Survey them once, and whilst thou breath’st the airThou’lt ne’er forget the great, the good and wise.
Survey, survey Gi Shoi’s murmuring flood!Like to the green bamboos upon it’s shoreAre the illustrious, the great and good—More pure than gold, more soft than stannine ore;The round imperial agate’s not more sheen;Ever magnanimous and constant found,On glory’s car they sit with placid mien,And smile benign where jocund sports abound.
From the Mandchou or Chinese Tartar.(An extract from the “Description of Moukden” by the Emperor Kian Loung.)
Autumn has fled and winter left our bounds;Now for the chase amongst the mountain grounds,Our troops their implements and arms prepare.Like colour’d rainbow see our banners glare;While paler far and like the waning bow,Rustle the standards in the winds that blow;Piercing the mists, above our heads that lower,Aloft behold our stately Toron{21}tower,Flapping the skies with its embroider’d rim.Away we journey, hale in mind and limb;Our cars of state are creaking in the rear,Whilst in the front the active guides appear.
And now our children mount their colts of speed,Their sculptur’d cars full little here they need;From the right side they take the arrow keen,Ne’er to its quiver to return, I ween;The bow, the left side’s fitting ornament;The bow, the tough and pliant bow is bent;It yields a sound, like thunder from afar,While flies the arrow, like a streaming star.
None now expects a tale of fabled might;Wang Liyang’s{22}bridle will no more delight;Nor how his chariot Siyan Ou did guide;Nor how, incas’d in hauberk’s steely pride,His hundred myriads, at the cymbals’ sound,The falcon launch’d, or slipp’d the eager hound;Or giving rein to every fiery steedNo more precipitous Tai Shan would heed,Than stair which leadeth to some upper bower;Or swarming down tumultuous to the shore,Chain’d the sea-waters with the nets they cast—For such wild miracles the time is past.
Numerous and brilliant spreads our hunting train,Stilly or noisily the aim is ta’en,Forth the shaft speedeth all athirst for blood,Whilst the string rattleth sharp against the wood;The stags we scatter, in the plain which browse,Or from his cavern the rough boar uprouse;We scare the bokoin to the highest steeps,Hunt down the hare, along the plain which leaps.But though we slaughter, nor the work resignWhen stiff and wearied are each hand and spine,On field and mountain still the beasts are spiedPlenteous as grasses in the summer tide;As at three points the fierce attack I ply,Seeing what numbers still remain to die,Captains, pick’d captains I with speed despatch,Who by the tail the spotted leopard catch,Crash to the brain the furious tiger’s head,Grapple the bear so powerful and dread,The ancient sow, the desert’s haunter, slay—Whilst with applause their prowess we survey.
When thus fresh meat they have obtain’d with glee,The largest beasts the hunters bear to me,From which we separate and cast asideWhatever beast by frontal wound has died;To those the preference we at once decree,In whose left side the fatal mark we see,Those to be offer’d to our fathers’ manes,Within their high and consecrated fanes,To dry and cure in wooden trays are laid,Till bak’d or roast the offering is made.Our guests they dine on the rejected prey,And what they leave is safely stor’d away;The gross amount of what is slain and shotFalls to the carmen and the rabble’s lot.
An Ode.From the Russian of Boris Fedorow.
Quiet Don!Azure Don!Who dost glideDeep and wide,To the proudCossack crowdDrink which cheers,Path which bears.
Quiet Don!Azure Don!Glory beTo thy sons,Cossacks freeWarrior ones;The world muteOf their deedsHears the bruit—Wide it speeds.
Light, I wot,Hands they’ve not;Down they flyThundringly,Foes to crush,E’en as rushDown midst rocksEagle flocks.
Silent Don!Azure Don!Praise to theirDeeds so fair;Fain our brightCzar requiteWould each one,Knew it mightScarce be done—Gave his son.
Silent Don!Azure Don!Sport and play,Shine forth gay;Gift most rare—Alexander,Russia’s heir,To thy clanGiven is forAttaman.
Joys now every Cossack man,Joys the Black sea’s every stan{26}And UralFlings its spray,Roars withalNight and day—Joy to Cossacks—joy and gleeTo each hero-regiment be:Given is anAttaman.
From the Russian of Pushkin.
On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.
When easy of faith, young and ardent was I,I lov’d a fair Grecian with love the most high.
The damsel deceitful she flatter’d my flame,But soon a dark cloud o’er my sunshine there came.
One day I’d invited of guests a gay crew,Then to me there came creeping an infamous Jew.
“With thy friends thou art feasting” he croaked in my ear—“Whilst to thee proves unfaithful Greshenka thy dear.”
I gave to him gold and a curse, for his meed,And I summon’d a thrall, ever faithful in need.
Forth rushing, I leap’d my tall courser upon,And soft pity I bade from my bosom begone.
But scarcely the door of Greshenka I view’dWhen my eyes became dark, and a swoon near ensu’d.
Alone to a far remote chamber I pac’d,And there an Armenian my damsel embrac’d.
My sight it forsook me—forth flash’d my sword straight,But I to prevent the knave’s kiss was too late.
The vile, headless trunk I spurn’d fierce with my foot,And I gaz’d on the pallid maid darkly and mute.
I remember her praying—her blood streaming wide—There perish’d Greshenka, my sweet love there died.
The shawl, the black shawl from her shoulders I tore,And in silence I wip’d from my sabre the gore.
My thrall, when the evening mists fell with their dew,In the waves of the Dunau her fair body threw.
From that hour I have seen not her eyes’ beamy lights,From that hour I have known no delectable nights.
On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.
From the Russian of Pushkin.
Hoary man, hateful man!Gash my frame, burn my frame;Bold I am, scoff I canAt the sword, at the flame.
Thee as hell I abhor,And despise heartily;I another do adore,And for love of him die.
Gash my frame, burn my frame!—Nothing I will tell thee;Man of age, man of rage,Him thou’lt ne’er know from me.
Fresh as May and as gay,Warm as Summer days he;O how sweet, young and neat,O how well he loves me.
O how him I carestIn the night still and fine;O how then we did jestAt that grey head of thine.
An ancient Ballad.From the Malo-Russian.
O’er the field the snow is flying,There a wounded Cossack’s lying;On a bush his head he’s leaning,And his eyes with grass is screening,Meadow-grass so greenly shiny,And with cloth the make of China;Croaks the raven hoarsely o’er him,Neighs his courser sad before him:“Either, master, give me pay,Or dismiss me on my way.”“Break thy bridle, O my courser,Down the path amain be speeding,Through the verdant forest leading;Drink of two lakes on thy way,Eat of mowings two the hay;Rush the castle-portal under,With thy hoof against it thunder,Out shall come a Dame that moaneth,Whom thy lord for mother owneth;I will tell thee, my brave prancer,When she speaks thee what to answer.
“O thou steed, than lightning faster,Tell me where’s thy youthful master!Him in fight thou hast forsaken,Or has cast him down, I reckon.”
“Nor in fight I’ve him forsaken,Nor have cast him down, I reckon,The lone field with blood bedewing,There the damsel Death he’s wooing.”
A Lithuanian Ballad.From the Polish of Mickiewicz.
With his three mighty sons, tall as Ledwin’s were once,To the court-yard old Budrys advances;“Your best steeds forth lead ye, to saddle them speed ye,And sharpen your swords and your lances.
For in Wilna I’ve vow’d, that three trumpeters loudI’d despatch unto lands of like number,To make Russ Olgierd vapour, and Pole Skirgiel caper,And to rouse German Kiestut from slumber.
Hie away safe and sound, serve your dear native ground;May the High Gods Litewskian defend ye!Though at home I must tarry, my counsel forth carry:Ye are three, and three ways ye must wend ye.
Unto Olgierd’s Russ plain one of ye must amain,To where Ilmen and Novogrod tower;There are sables for plunder, veils work’d to a wonder,And of coin have the merchants a power.
Let another essay to prince Kiestut his way,To whose crosletted doys{32}bitter gruel!There is amber like gravel, cloth worthy to travel,And priests deck’d in diamond and jewel.
Unto Pole Skirgiel’s part let the third hero start,There the dwellings but poorly are furnish’d;So choose ye there rather, and bring to your father,Keen sabres and bucklers high-burnish’d.
But bring home, above all, Laskian{33}girls to our hall,More sprightly than fawns in fine weather;The hues of the morning their cheeks are adorning,Their eyes are like stars of the ether.
Half a century ago, when my young blood did glow,A wife from their region I bore me;Death tore us asunder, yet ne’er I look yonder,But memory straight brings her before me.”
Now advis’d them he hath, so he blesseth their path,And away they high-spirited rattle;Grim winter comes chiding—of them there’s no tiding;Says Budrys: they’ve fallen in battle.
With an avalanche’s might to the gate spurs a knight,And beneath his wide mantle he’s laden:“Hast there Russian money—the roubles so bonny?”“No, no! I’ve a Laskian maiden.”
Like an avalanche in might riding comes an arm’d knight,And beneath his wide mantle he’s laden:“From the German, brave fellow, bring’st amber so yellow?”“No, no! here’s a Laskian maiden.”
Like an avalanche of snow the third up rideth now,Nor has he, as it seemeth, been idle;As the booty he showeth, old Budrys hallooethTo bid guests for the brave triple bridal.
From the Finnish.
The plague is solemnly conjured to leave the country, and the speaker offers to find a suitable conveyance, namely a demon-horse summoned from one of those mountains in Norway supposed to be inhabited by evil spirits and goblins.
Hie away, thou horrid monster!Hie away, our country’s ruin!Hie thee from our plains and valleys!I will find thee fit conveyance,Find a horse for thee to ride on,One whose feet nor slip nor stumbleOn the ice or on the mountain;Get thee gone, I do conjure thee;Take thee from the hill a courser,From the Goblin’s Burg a stallionFor thy dreary homeward journey;If thou ask me for conveyance,If thou ask me for a courser,I will raise thee one full quickly,On whose back though mayest gallopTo thy home accurst in Norway,To the flint-hard hill in Norway.When the Goblin’s Burg thou reachestBurst with might its breast asunder;Plunge thee past its sand-born witchesDown into the gulf eternal;Never be thou seen or heard ofFrom that dismal gulf eternal.Get thee gone, I do conjure thee,Into Lapland’s thickest forest,To the North’s extremest region;Get thee gone, I do command thee,To the North’s most dusky region.
From the Finnish.
Woinomoinen was, according to the Mythology of the ancient Finns, the second Godhead, being only inferior to Jumala. He was master of the musical art, and when he played upon his instrument produced much the same effect as the Grecian Orpheus, enticing fishes from the stream and the wild animals from the forest. The lines here translated are a fragment of a poem which describes a musical contest between Woinomoinen and the Giant Joukkawainen, in which the latter was signally defeated.
Then the ancient Woinomoinen,On the bench himself he seated,Took the harp betwixt his fingers,On his knee about he turn’d it,In his hand he fitly plac’d it.Play’d the ancient Woinomoinen,Universal joy awaking;Like a concert was his playing;There was nothing in the forestOn four nimble feet that runneth,On four lengthy legs that stalketh,But repair’d to hear the music,When the ancient Woinomoinen,When the Father joy awaken’d.E’en at Woinomoinen’s harping’Gainst the hedge the bear up-bounded.There was nothing in the forestOn two whirring pinions flying,But with whirl-wind speed did hasten;There was nothing in the ocean,With six fins about that roweth,Or with eight to move delighteth,But repair’d to hear the music.E’en the briny water’s mother{38}’Gainst the beach, breast-forward, cast her,On a little sand-hill rais’d her,On her side with toil up-crawling.E’en from Woinomoinen’s eye-ballsTears of heart-felt pleasure trickled,Bigger than the whortle-berry,Heavier than the eggs of plovers,Down his broad and mighty bosom,Knee-ward from his bosom flowing,From his knee his feet bedewing;And I’ve heard, his tears they trickledThrough the five wool-wefts of thickness,Through his jackets eight of wadmal.
From the Anglo Saxon.
Every one beneath the heavenShould of death expect the day,And let him, whilst life is given,Bright with fame his name array.
For amongst the countless numberIn the clay-cold grave at rest,Lock’d in arms of iron slumber,He most happy is and blest.
From the Ancient Norse.
The day in East is glowing,The cock on high is crowing;Upon the heath’s brown heather’Tis time our bands we gather.Ye Chieftains disencumberYour eyes of clogging slumber;Ye mighty friends of Attil,The far-renown’d in battle!
Thou Har, who grip’st thy foemanRight hard, and Rolf the bowman,And many, many others,The forky lightning’s brothers!Wake—not for banquet-table!Wake—not with maids to gabble!But wake for rougher sporting,For Hildur’s{40}bloody courting.
Now food forego and drinking;On war be ye all thinking,To serve the king who’ve bound yeFor roof and raiment found ye;Reflect there’s prize and bootyFor all who do their duty;Away with fear inglorious,If ye would be victorious!
Great Rolf, the land who shielded,And who its sceptre wielded,Who freely fed and paid us,With mail and swords array’d us,Now lies on bier extended,His life by treachery ended—To us be like disaster,Save we avenge our master.
From the Ancient Norse.
(This piece describes the disaster of Sigvald, Earl of Jomsborg, a celebrated viking or pirate, who, according to tradition, was repulsed from the coast of Norway by Hakon Jarl, with the assistance of Thorgerd, a female demon, to whom Hakon sacrificed his youngest son, Erling.)
For victory as we bounded,I heard, with fear astounded,The storm, of Thorgerd’s waking,From Northern vapours breaking.Sent by the fiend in anger,With din and stunning clangour,To crush our might intended,Gigantic hail descended.
A pound the smallest pebbleDid weigh, and others treble;Full dreadful was the slaughter;And blood ran out like water,Ran, reeking, red and horridFrom batter’d cheek and forehead.But though so rudely greeted,No Jomsborg man retreated.
The fiend, so fierce and savage,To work us further ravage,Shot lightning from each finger,Which sped, and did not linger;Then sank our brave in numbersTo cold, eternal slumbers;There lay the good and gallant,Unmatch’d for warlike talent.
Our captain this perceiving,The signal made for leaving,And with his ship departed,Down-cast and broken-hearted;We spread our sails to follow,—And soon the breezes hollow,From shores we came to harry,Our luckless remnant carry.
From the Suabian.
The King who well crown’d does govern the land,And whose fair crown well fill’d does stand—That King adorns his crown, I trow;And he who is thus by his crown adorn’d,And for whose sake never that crown is scorn’d,Does bear a well-fill’d crown on his brow.
To a Mountain Torrent.From the German of Stolberg.
O stripling immortal thou forth dost careerFrom thy deep rocky chasm; beheld has no eyeThe mighty one’s cradle, and heard has no earAt his under-ground spring-head his infant-like cry.
How lovely art thou in the foam of thy brow,And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill;For awful art thou and terrific, I vow,In the roar of the echoing forest and hill.
The pine-trees are shaken—they yield to thy shocks,And crashing they tumble in wild disarray;The rocks fly before thee—thou seizest the rocks,And contemptuously whirlst them like pebbles away.
But why dost thou haste to the ocean’s dark flood?Say, art thou not blest in thine own native ground,When in the lone mountain and black shady woodThou dost bellow, and all gives response to thy sound?
Then haste not, I pray thee, to yonder blue sea,For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny’s rod,Whilst here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free—Free as a cloud-bird, and strong as a God.
Forsooth it is pleasant, at eve or at noon,To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays,When ting’d by the light of the wandering moon,Or when red with the gold of the midsummer rays.
What of that? what of that? thou shouldst ever beholdThat lustre as nought but a bait and a snare:Ah, what is the summer sun’s purple and goldUnto him, who can breathe not in freedom the air?
O pause for a while in thy downward career!But still art thou streaming, my words are in vain:Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineerOn the billowy breast of the time-serving main.
Then haste not, I pray thee, to yonder blue sea,For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny’s rod,Whilst here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free—Free as a cloud-bird, and strong as a God.
From the Dutch of Johannes Bellamy.
O we have a sister on earthly dominions!Cried two of the holy Angelical train,And flew up to heaven with fluttering pinions,But quickly to earth they descended again;Their brothers, with voices triumphantly lifted,Behind them came flocking this wonder to view,More fast than the gleam from the cloud that is rifted,Down, down to a forest of beeches they flew,
And there beheld Chloe, all rapt in devotion,Upon the ground kneeling, unable to speak;A tear-drop, the offspring of pious emotion,Was streaming like dew down her beautiful cheek.Confounded, astonish’d, in ecstacy gazing,Around her the spirits aerial stood,Then sudden their voices tumultuously raisingCried: Father, we’ll stay with her here in the wood!
Then frown’d the dread Father; his thunders appallingTo rattle began, and his whirlwinds to roar,Then trembled the host, but they heeded his calling,And Chloe up-snatching, to heaven they soar.O we had a sister on earthly dominions!They sang as through heaven triumphant they stray’d,And bore with flush’d faces and fluttering pinionsTo God’s throne of brightness the yet praying maid.
From the Danish of Evald.
Written to commemorate three great naval victories achieved by the three great Danish heroes, Christian, Juul, and Tordenskiold.
King Christian stood beside the mastIn smoke and mist.His weapons, hammering hard and fast,Through helms and brains of Gothmen pass’d,Then sank each hostile sail and mastIn smoke and mist.“Fly,” said the foe, “fly all that can,For who can Denmark’s ChristianResist?”
Niels Juul he mark’d the tempest’s roar:“Now, now’s the tide!”He hoists his banner, red as gore,And plied his foemen aft and fore,Loud crying ’midst the tempest’s roar:“Now, now’s the tide!”“Fly each, who knows a refuge path,For who can Juul, when hot with wrath,Abide!”
O North sea, Weasel’s{50}flashes rentThy vapours dun.Down to thy bosom heroes went,For with those flashes death was blent;From the fight rose a yell which rentThy vapours dun.From Denmark lighteneth Tordenskiold,—“Yield, yield to heaven’s favourite bold,And run.”
Thou Danish path to fame and might,Dark-rolling main!Receive thy friend, who holds as lightThe perils of the stormy fight,Who braves like thee the tempest’s might,Dark-rolling main!Bear me through battle, song and sport,Until the grave, my final port,I gain!
From the Danish of Edward Storm.
(At the commencement of the last century, Colonel Sinclair, a Scotsman in the service of the King of Sweden, landed upon the coast of Norway, at the time war was raging between the Danish and Swedish crowns, with a band of Scots which he had levied in his native country. After committing much havoc and cruelty, the invaders were destroyed to a man in a conflict with the peasantry, who had assembled in considerable number. Many of the broad-swords lost by the Scots in this encounter are to be seen in the Museum of Copenhagen, trophies of a victory achieved in a hallowed cause—the defence of the father-land against unprovoked aggression.)
Sir Sinclair sail’d from the Scottish ground,To Norroway o’er he hasted;On Guldbrand’s rocks his grave he found,Where his corse in its gore is wasted.
Sir Sinclair sail’d o’er the blue, blue wave,For Swedish pay he hath sold him,God help the Scot, for the Norsemen braveShall biting the grass behold him.
The moon at night shed pale its light,The billows are gently swelling;See a mermaid merge from the briny surge,To Sir Sinclair evil telling.
“Turn back, turn back, thou bonny Scot:Thy purpose straight abandon:To return will not be Sir Sinclair’s lot,Should Sir Sinclair Norroway land on.”
“A curse on thy strain, thou imp of the main,Who boding ill art ever!For what thou dost preach, wert thou in my reach,Thy limbs I would dissever.”
He sail’d for a day, he sail’d for three,With all his hired legions;On the fourth day’s morn Sir Sinclair heSaw Norroway’s rocky regions.
On Romsdale’s sands he quickly lands,Himself for a foe declaring;Him follow’d then twelve hundred menSuch evil intentions bearing.
They vex’d the people, where’er they rov’d,With pillage and conflagration;Nor them old age’s feebleness mov’d,Nor the widow’s lamentation.
The child was slain at the mother’s breast,Though it smil’d on the murderous savage:But soon went tidings, east and west,Of all this wo and ravage.
From neighbour to neighbour the message runs,On the mountain blaz’d the beacon;Into lurking-holes crept not the valley’s sons,As the Scots perchance might reckon.
“The soldiers have follow’d the King to the war,Ourselves must arm us, brothers!And he who here his life will spareShall be damn’d as a cur by the others.”
The peasants of Vaage, of Laxoe and Lom,With axes sharp and heavy,To the gathering at Bredaboig, one and all, come,On the Scots fierce war to levy.
A pass, which all men Kringe call,By the foot of the mountain goeth;The Lauge, wherein the Scots shall fall,Close, close beside it floweth.
The aged shooters are taking aim,Each gun has been call’d into duty;The Naik{54}his wet beard uplifts from the stream,And with longing expects his booty.
Sir Sinclair fell the first, with a yellHis soul escap’d him for ever,Each Scot loud cried when his leader died;“May the Lord-God us deliver!”
“Now fierce on the dogs, ye jolly Norse-men,To the chine strike down and cleave them!”Then the Scots would fain be at home again,Their vaunty spirits leave them.
Filling their craws to their hearts content’Midst carnage the ravens wander’d;The Scottish maids shall long lamentThe young blood on the Kringe squander’d.
Not a single man escap’d, not one,To his landsmen to tell the story;’Tis a perilous thing to invade who woneOn Norroway’s mountains hoary.
A pillar still towers on that self-same spot,Which Norraway’s foes defyeth;To the Norman wo, whose heart glows notWhen he that pillar eyeth.
From the Danish.
Our native land has ever teem’dWith warriors gallant-hearted,Who bravery as their duty deem’d,And ne’er from danger started;Such Tordenskiold, and Adeler,And Juul, and many others were.Our native land has ever teem’dWith warriors gallant-hearted.
But who had e’er of braveryThe gallant Hvidfeld’s measure?Who e’er saw Death so plain as he,And enter’d it with pleasure?Ne’er shall his name oblivion meet,For with his death he sav’d our fleet.Our native land has ever teem’dWith warriors gallant-hearted.
’Gainst numerous foes we fought one dayA fight so fierce and gory,And next the foe Sir Hvidfeld lay,To danger close and glory;And there was no man fought so stoutAs Hvidfeld fought, that bloody bout.Our native land has ever teem’dWith warriors gallant-hearted.
But as Sir Hvidfeld broadsides loudLay taking and returning,His own fire set his vessel proud,His Dannebrog, a burning.“Slip anchor, Sir,” his sailors cry,“To land for safety let us fly!”Our native land has ever teem’dWith warriors gallant-hearted.
“No!” answer’d he, “for danger then’Midst Denmark’s fleet we carry;Shall it be risk’d by Danish men,That they alive may tarry?We’ll die, but we’ll avenge our death;We’ll fight until our latest breath.”Our native land has ever teem’dWith warriors gallant hearted.
“Yes, to the latest breath we’ll fight!”His seamen answer’d, cheering;Around was death in horrors dight,But still they fought unfearing,Till the fire reach’d the powder-store,And all died heroes midst its roar.Our native land has ever teem’dWith warriors gallant-hearted.
And Hvidfeld’s fame shall ne’er decay,His gallant seamens’ never;A worthy countryman shall theyIn every Dane find ever;When Denmark dear to us shall cry,Like them will we grim death defy.Our native ground shall still aboundWith warriors gallant-hearted.
A Fragment.From the Ancient Danish.
It was late at evening tide,Sinks the day-star in the wave,When alone Orm UngarswayneRode to seek his father’s grave.
Late it was at evening hour,When the steeds to streams are led;Let me now, said Orm the young,Wake my father from the dead.
It was bold Orm UngarswayneStamp’d the hill with mighty foot:Riv’n were wall and marble-stone,Shook the mountain to its root.
It was bold Orm UngarswayneStruck the hill with such a might,That it was a miracle,That the hill fell not outright.
From the hill Orm’s father cried,Where so long, so long he’d lain;“Cannot I in quiet lieDeep within my dark domain?
Who upon my hill doth stand?Who doth dare disturb my bones?Cannot I in quiet lie’Neath my heavy roof of stones?
Who doth dare my sleep to scare?Who brings down this ruin all?Let him fear, for now I swearThat by Birting he shall fall.”
“I’m Orm Ungarswayne, thy son,Youngest son, O father dear:And to beg a mighty boonIn my need I seek thee here.”
“If thou be Orm Ungarswayne,Orm the kempion bold and free,Silver, gold, last year I told—All thou cravedst—o’er to thee.”
“Thou wast free of gold and fee,Glittering trash of little worth—Birting now I crave of thee,Birting bravest sword of earth.”
“Never shalt thou Birting win,To obtain the King’s fair daughter,Till to Ireland thou hast been,And aveng’d thy father’s slaughter.”
“Give to me the Birting sword,And with Birting bid me thrive,Or I will thy sheltering hillInto thousand atoms rive.”
“Stretch thou down thy right hand here,Take the falchion from my side;If thou break thy father’s hill,Dreadful wo will thee betide.”
From the hill he Birting stretch’d,Plac’d the hilt within his grasp:“Strong of hand and valiant stand,That thy foes before thee gasp.”
From the hill he Birting stretch’d,Plac’d the hilt within his hold:“Save good fate on thee await,I shall never be consol’d.”
From the Swedish of Tegner.(An extract from Frithiof’s Saga.)
Autumn winds howl;Ocean is swelling so stormy.—My soul,Would with the sighs which I utterForth thou wouldst flutter!
Long did I viewFar in the West the sail which flew—Happy my Frithiof to followO’er the wave hollow!
Blue billow runO not so high, for it still sails on!Stars, for my mariner sparkle,As the nights darkle!
Spring will appear.He will come home, but unmet by his dearOr in the hall, or the dingle,Or on the shingle.
She’ll lie in mould,All for her love’s sake, pallid and cold,Or she will bleed, by no otherSlain than her brother.
Hawk, left behind!Thou shalt be mine and I’ll prove ever kind:Ever, wing’d hunter, I’ll scatterFood on thy platter.
Here on his handWork’d on my kerchiefs hem thou shalt stand,Pinions of silver and glowingGold-talons showing.
Hawk-pinions triedFreia{63}one time, and around about hied;Sought North and South to discoverOder her lover.
E’en shouldst thou lendMe thy brave wings, yet I could not ascend;Only Death brings me, poor minion,The divine pinion.
Hunter so free!Sit on my shoulder and look to the sea;Spite of our looking and yearning,He’s not returning.
When I’m at rest,And he comes safe, do thou mind my behest:O with best greetings receive him,Frithiof, who’ll grieve him.
From the Ancient Irish.
Finn Mac Coul ’mongst his joys did numberTo hark to the boom of the dusky hills;By the wild cascade to be lull’d to slumber,Which Cuan Na Seilg with its roaring fills.He lov’d the noise when storms were blowing,And billows with billows fought furiously,Of Magh Maom’s kine the ceaseless lowing,And deep from the glen the calves’ feeble cry;The noise of the chase from Slieve Crott pealing,The hum from the bushes Slieve Cua below,The voice of the gull o’er the breakers wheeling,The vulture’s scream, over the sea flying slow;The mariners’ song from the distant haven,The strain from the hill of the pack so free,From Cnuic Nan Gall the croak of the raven,The voice from Slieve Mis of the streamlets three;Young Oscar’s voice, to the chase proceeding,The howl of the dogs, of the deer in quest;But to recline where the cattle were feedingThat was the delight which pleas’d him best.Delighted was Oscar, the generous-hearted,To listen when shields rang under the blow:But nothing to him such delight impartedAs fighting with heroes and laying them low.
From the Irish.
The arts of Greece, Rome and of Eirin’s fair earth,If at my sole command they this moment were all,I’d give, though I’m fully aware of their worth,Could they back from the dead my lost Mary recall.
I’m distrest every noon, now I sit down alone,And at morn, now with me she arises no more:With no woman alive after Thee would I wive,Could I flocks and herds gain and of gold a bright store.
Awhile in green Eirin so pleasant I dwelt,With her nobles I drank to whom music was dear;Then left to myself, O how mournful I feltAt the close of my life, with no partner to cheer.
My sole joy and my comfort wast thou ’neath the sun,Dark gloom, now I’m reft of thee, filleth my mind;I shall know no more happiness now thou art gone,O my Mary, of wit and of manners refin’d.
From the Gaelic of Mac-Intyre.
On Icolmcill may blessings pour!It is the island blest of yore;Mull’s sister-twin in the wild main,Owning the sway of high Mac-Lean;The sacred spot, whose fair renownTo many a distant land has flown,And which receives in courteous wayAll, all who thither chance to stray.
There in the grave are many a KingAnd duine-wassel{68}slumbering;And bodies, once of giant strength,Beneath the earth are stretch’d at length;It is the fate of mortals allTo ashes fine and dust to fall;I’ve hope in Christ, for sins who died,He has their souls beatified.
Now full twelve hundred years, and more,On dusky wing have flitted o’er,Since that high morn when Columb greyIts wall’s foundation-stone did lay;Images still therein remainAnd death-memorials carv’d with pain;Of good hewn stone from top to base,It shows to Time a dauntless face.
A man this day the pulpit fill’d,Whose sermon brain and bosom thrill’d,And all the listening crowd I heardPraising the mouth which it proferr’d:Since death has seiz’d on Columb Cill,And Mull may not possess him still,There’s joy throughout its heathery lands,In Columb’s place that Dougal stands.
From the Gaelic.
O for to hear the hunter’s treadWith his spear and his dogs the hills among;In my aged cheek youth flushes redWhen the noise of the chase arises strong.
Awakes in my bones the marrow whene’erI hark to the distant shout and bay;When peals in my ear; “We’ve kill’d the deer”—To the hill-tops boundeth my soul away;
I see the slug-hound tall and gaunt,Which follow’d me, early and late, so true;The hills, which it was my delight to haunt,And the rocks, which rang to my loud halloo.
I see Scoir Eild by the side of the glen,Where the cuckoo calleth so blithe in May,And Gorval of pines, renown’d ’mongst menFor the elk and the roe which bound and play.
I see the cave, which receiv’d our feetSo kindly oft from the gloom of night,Where the blazing tree with its genial heatWithin our bosoms awak’d delight.
On the flesh of the deer we fed our fill—Our drink was the Treigh, our music its wave;Though the ghost shriek’d shrill, and bellow’d the hill,’Twas pleasant, I trow, in that lonely cave.
I see Benn Ard of form so fair,Of a thousand hills the Monarch proud;On his side the wild deer make their lair,His head’s the eternal couch of the cloud.
But vision of joy, and art thou flown?Return for a moment’s space, I pray,—Thou dost not hear—ohone, ohone—Hills of my love, farewell for aye.
Farewell ye youths, so bold and free,And fare ye well, ye maids divine!No more I can see ye—yours is the gleeOf the summer, the gloom of the winter mine.
At noon-tide carry me into the sun,To the bank by the side of the wandering stream,To rest the shamrock and daisy upon,And then will return of my youth the dream.
Place ye by my side my harp and shell,And the shield, my fathers in battle bore;Ye halls, where Oisin and Daoul{72}dwell,Unclose—for at eve I shall be no more.